eating alone at a corner table
by lostinanotherworld24
Summary: everyone copes in different ways, but what happens when Clay takes coping too far? Set after season two, warning for themes of disordered eating


A/N: this is the longest piece I've ever published, and I am so proud of it. I hope you enjoy it, and don't forget to leave a review! Thanks!

title comes from the poem _old man eating alone in a chinese restaurant _by billy collins

Jason's been around for quite some time, and he knows a thing or two about having rookies on the team. The first order of business, similar to having a new pet, is establishing rules. In order for things to go well in the field, things must go well at base, meaning that they need to be consistent and firm on laying down the law. _Don't have more than one drink on the plane, don't wander off and not tell anyone, always notify Trent of any injuries. _Naturally, Clay tries to buck the rules some, but they get those tendencies reigned in with enough time. For a while, everything is going swimmingly, and he begins to relax, begins to think Ray was right about drafting Clay.

They're on a Gucci deployment when the trouble starts. There's not much to do, hence he and the boys are taking some time to partake in the local cuisine, get a taste of authentic Hawaiian food. Clay is the only one missing, off doing one workout or another, and Jason doesn't think much of it. Soon after everyone's dug in, Clay comes jogging up, the front of his shirt soaked with sweat.

"Get enough exercise, pretty boy?" Sonny teases. Automatically, he portions off a piece of his meal, shoves it towards Clay.

"Nah man, I'm good," Clay shakes his head and takes a swig of water.

"C'mon, I get hunger pains just looking atcha. Eat something."

"I'm really not hungry, Sonny."

"What have you had to eat today?" Jason questions, not sure why Clay's putting up such a fuss.

"What's with the twenty questions? I ate food. I'm good."

"What food?"

"Why does it matter? I ate. I'm gonna go check out the pool, get a few laps in."

"Dude, you just went running for like 5 miles. Take a break," Ray softly instructs.

Clay wordlessly turns and walks away, sweat shiny on the back of his neck.

"What bug's up his ass?" Sonny wonders aloud, shoving another bite in.

"I don't know."

Xxxx

Clay launches into the still pool, calm rushing over him like a wave. Methodically, his arms slice through the water, while his legs propel him forward. These are the moments he lives for, the moments when his brain is shut off and all there's left to do is feel. Feel the sensation of water sliding along his skin, the burn and ache of overworked muscles, the weightlessness of a world without gravity. This is how he finds peace.

Afterwards, the interaction with the team floods back into his mind. Nothing's wrong, he just hasn't felt like eating much lately, but he can't tell them that. Should he do so, there'll be doctor visits and appointments with a nutritionist, and they'll watch him constantly, no matter what. The thought of that kind of close surveillance makes his skin crawl, and he promises himself that he'll be more diligent in keeping up appearances. If they think everything's good, they won't have any reason to worry.

Xxxx

Clay brings himself to a halt, bending forwards, panting harshly. Frantically, his heart tries to claw its way out of his chest, hurrying from the lack of oxygen. Maybe he should slow down on the energy drinks.

"You okay, Clay? You were going pretty hard today," Ray studies him critically.

"I'm fine," Clay wheezes, standing up and stretching. He gives Ray a blinding smile.

"C'mon man, I hear you gasping. Let's go get some lunch," Ray suggests, tugging on Clay's elbow. Clay shrugs him off.

"Nah, I think I'm gonna run the course a couple more times, see if I can't improve any."

"Dude it's like 100 degrees, let's take a break."

"Ray, what are you, my mother? I'll take a break later."

Ray sighs as Clay makes his way towards the start of the course, wishing that Clay, for once, would be easy-going about things.

Xxxx

Later that night, fire races down his spine, and spreads throughout his chest. His back bows from the sudden influx of pain, and his eyes are blurry with tears when he finally manages to open them. This is one of the worst pains he's ever felt, his whole being totally consumed by it. Breath gasps from his lips, slow and labored. Finally, the pain subsides, and he relaxes back into the bed.

For a frogman, fear has never been a natural emotion. The suddenness of the attack, the way it overwhelmed him past the point of conscious thought, terrifies him more than jumping from that oil rig. He forces his heartbeat to slow, and closes his eyes, willing away the sirens in the back of his head that say he's in trouble, and needs help.

Xxxx

They spend more time with each other than they do their families, of course they notice when one of them starts acting a little different. Brock brings up the subject one day when Jason's doing paperwork in the common area, the steady thud of Cerebus's tennis ball accompanying his words.

"Boss, I think something's up with Clay."

Brock so rarely offers up information, although he observes everything, that Jason immediately halts his pen and turns to face the other man.

"What have you noticed?"

"He's not spending much time with us anymore. Even Sonny mentioned he hadn't hung out with Clay in a while. He's just...acting different."

Jason nods.

"I'll have a talk with him soon."

Xxxx

Brock's words haunt Jason for the next few days, and he keeps a much closer eye on Clay as a result. He's not the only one; almost everyone has made a pointed comment or two about Clay's absence at team events, and their eyes seem to find Clay more and more when he is with them. They all notice the dark circles indicating lack of sleep, the way Clay seems to sweat 24/7 these days even at rest, and the way he's never quite able to stay completely still. The only problem is approaching Clay, because go too gentle and get ignored, or go too hard and get pushed out. It's a fucking conumdrum that no one quite knows how to resolve.

Xxxx

He survived SERE, a bowl of fruit should not be so daunting. Clay stares at that bowl, shoves a few pieces around with his fork, spears one. The fork shakes as he lifts it to his mouth, the bite of cantaloupe heavy and wrong. Still, he forces himself to swallow it, to pick up another and keep going. Near the end of the bowl, the food goes mushy and tasteless in his mouth, and his throat locks up and refuses to accept anything else.

Frustrated, he shoves himself up and away, returns the bowl and fork to their proper place. He's been losing weight and he knows it's probably dangerous to not say anything about his issues. On the flipside, the protein powder and shakes keep him going pretty well, give him enough energy to do whatever he wants or needs to. There's really no reason to say anything, he tells himself, not when saying something might lead to a removal from the teams.

Unbeknownst to Clay, Jason is seated a few tables away, and is carefully observing the younger man. A spike of worry flits through Jason at the sight of this scene. With how hard Clay had been hitting it lately, he should be absolutely ravenous for food, not satisfied by a half-eaten bowl of fruit. The past few weeks start to scroll through his mind, and he starts mentally tallying how much working out Clay had done, compared to the amount of food Jason had seen him consume. The numbers are staggeringly skewed; Jason disposes his food and exits the chow hall, determined to find Ray and consult him about their plan of action.

Xxxx

The barbell slams against the mat with a thud, Clay pauses to swipe some sweat from his forehead with a towel. He's managed to double his previous weight, and is damn proud. Seems all that time working out actually paid off, and he's more excited to see how much farther he can go than he's been about anything in a long time. The adrenaline that comes from jumping out of airplanes mixes with the satisfaction from a perfect kill, and he could ride this high for _days. _

"Nice, kid. What're you up to?"

"290," he answers Jason, chugging from his water bottle. He starts to add on another weight plate, but is halted by Jason's hand on his arm.

"C'mon, you been in here for hours. Let's go get something from the chow hall."

"They ain't got to you too? Jason I'm fine. Just gonna get another couple reps in."

"Naw, you ain't. You're done. C'mon, let's go," the older man orders, wrapping a hand around Clay's bicep. Clay shrugs him off.

"An hour longer, and I'll meet you there."

"No. That's an order. Clean up in here, and come to the chow hall, and actually eat a full meal."

"I can just chug a protein shake and I'll be fine, I'm not hungry."

Jason's had two kids, and knows that the best response at times is no response. Clay has his orders; he simply leans back against the wall and waits for the younger man to obey. With minimal grumbling and a wary eye or two thrown his way, Clay replaces all the weight plates and exits the exercise room with Jason following close behind.

Xxxx

The meal only intensifies Jason's worry, because here he is hit with the stark realization that Clay has fallen farther than any of them expected. Each bite is a genuine effort, despite his best efforts to appear normal. He does a lot of shoving food around his plate, wastes time chewing each bite. At the end of the meal, he has consumed little food, not nearly enough to replenish the energy expended by his intense workout.

Clay stretches as he stands, the outline of his ribs stark against his tight t-shirt.

"Alright, that was fun. Gonna go hit the pool now."

"No, you're not kid. You are gonna go take a nap."

Clay eyes Jason seriously.

"When did you turn into my babysitter?"

"Since you started spending every waking minute working out and not nearly enough time eating or sleeping. I gave you your space, let you do things your way for long enough. Now, we're doing things my way."

"Jason, I _am_ a grown ass man."

"Yeah, but you're also Bravo's kid, and that gives us license to do whatever we damn well please with you. You need to rest. If your ass ain't in that bed for no less than 2 hours, you will be barred from the workout areas for a week. Capisce?"

Once Clay is safely ensconced in bed, with Sonny acting as sentry to ensure he remains there, Jason wanders off to go have a conversation with Trent. Trent can be found on a set of bleachers parallel to a grassy space, watching Brock run drills with Cerb.

"Something on your mind, boss?" Trent inquires, as Jason plops down next to him.

"It's Clay. He ain't been eating much, been working out too hard. I think something's wrong."

"Eating disorders are not uncommon in males, although severely underreported. It is possible he could have developed one. Are you gonna make him talk to the base doc?"

"Why? I mean what makes someone decide they're gonna stop eating?"

"Control. With how much upheaval we've had, it wouldn't surprise me if that was what he was after."

" "Alright. How do we help him? I'm not eager to send him to the base doc yet, because then that becomes part of his permanent record."

Trent considers this for a moment, steepling his index fingers and tapping them against his mouth.

"We weigh him tonight, compare it to his last physical. Make it a rule to eat three full meals, make sure we're with him in the chow hall. Limit the amount of energy drinks he can have, protein shakes, etc. It's not uncommon for those with disordered eating to use those as a substitute for real food."

Jason huffs a laugh, thinking of his strong-willed youngest adjusting to such restrictions.

"He ain't gonna like this," Jason warns.

"No, I don't suppose he will. But, he's our kid. He don't have to like it."

Xxxx

In the intervening hours between meeting with Trent and cornering Clay, there is a lot of work that needs to be done. First, Jason calls a meeting with all of the guys, and explains the situation. Almost everyone reports similar observations, and everyone agrees that something must be done. The time to reconvene is set at 2000.

Trent hunts down Clay's medical file next, and sits down with Jason to review. At his last physical, Clay measured at six foot even, and weighed in at 160 lbs. The doctor notated that everything seemed normal, and there were really no issues or concerns.

The final task is to go through Clay's stuff; Ray tempts him out of the door by offering to go on a run. Some might consider this a gross invasion of privacy, and it probably is, but Clay's health is far bigger a priority. The results from their search are staggering, producing five Red Bulls, five Bang energy drinks, three Starbucks doubleshots, six Monster energy drinks, two gallon size jars of protein powder, and numerous protein shakes. They lay out each item on a table, awed by the sheer volume of drinks.

"Jesus, kid could stay awake for a year," Sonny guffaws.

"Bet he ain't been sleeping much," Trent comments quietly.

Twenty minutes later, Ray returns with Clay in tow. Clay starts to stroll into the room, but halts at the sight of his stuff spread out on a table.

"What the hell?" He wonders aloud.

"Clay, we need to talk," Jason opens with, crossing his arms. The guys are spread out into a half-circle formation, and a scale lays on the floor in front of Jason. The room holds a determined air, in that they won't stop or quit until the truth has been found. His heart, used to sprinting from the influx of caffinine, begins to pound faster, stealing his breath and clouding his vision.

"About what?"

"Just step on the scale, kid."

Clay recoils, and starts to move back towards the door. Ray shifts from behind him to block the door, Sonny adjusts his weight, ready to catch him if he tries to run.

"Clay, get on the scale."

"When I know what the _fuck_ is going on."

"What's going on is you not sleeping. What's going on is you hitting it too hard, and not eating nearly enough. What's going on is you are isolating yourself, you are pulling away from us, and we're not gonna let that happen. You don't like it, tough. Get on the scale."

He rolls his eyes, but kicks off his shoes, and steps on the scale. Red numbers flash against a black scale, and he's almost more shocked than they are when it reads _125 lbs. _He would have been shit stupid to not notice he'd lost weight, but hadn't realized things had gotten that bad.

"Clay, you weighed 160 lbs two months ago. How the hell did you drop this much weight that fast?" Trent wonders.

"Lift up your shirt, kid."

Again, he rolls his eyes, but does as ordered, raising the bottom of the shirt to his neck. It's been a long time since he's seen himself shirtless, but the stifled gasps from his team tell him it must be pretty bad. Silently, he allows the shirt to cover his stomach again.

"Is that all?" He asks, crossing his arms.

"Hell no. We're gonna talk about this, and figure out a way to get you healthy again."

"There's nothing to talk about," he protests, crossing his arms.

"Kid, you're fuckin' wastin' away before our eyes. Ain't gonna let that happen."

"Clay, you lost 35 pounds in eight weeks. That's like, 4 pounds a week, and you were healthy before. You need help brother," Ray chimes in from behind.

"What I do is my business," he snaps.

"Clay, you either let us help you now, or we have you forcibly hospitalized," Trent warns.

"You wouldn't do that," he scoffs.

"We sure as shit would. We're not gonna gamble or play games with your health," Jason informs him.

Clay scans the other guys, sees the seriousness in Jason's tone reflected in their faces. Anger flows through him swift as a river, before an ocean of understanding overcomes that. If it were one of the other guys this was happening to, he'd probably make the same demands, have the same desire to save them. His shoulders don't slump entirely, but they do relax with resignation, which in turn causes the other guys to chill out as well. His body language is an open book to them at this point in time, and they know he's surrendered, that he'll allow them to help.

Jason shifts back slightly, and Trent takes his place at the apex of the half-circle.

"Why don't we go somewhere else, and I can determine what level of care you'll need. If you do need inpatient care," Trent suggest quietly. Clay jerks his head towards the door, and together they go outside.

Xxxx

The last of the day's sunset is fading from the sky when he and Clay sit down by the fire circle, crickets starting their nightly song. A certain kind of silence falls over them, but Trent breaks it soon enough.

"So, on average, how many calories do you think you consume per day?"

"I don't know, something around 3,000. More or less, depends on the day."

"And what's your primary method of obtaining those calories?"

"Protein shakes."

"How many of those would you say you consume per day?"

"Three or four."

They've been talking for less than five minutes, and Clay's answers aren't inspiring much hope in Trent. Christ, no wonder the kid lost so much weight, subsisting on so little. Protein shakes are meant to be an additive to normal meals, not a replacement. His physical cues aren't pleasing either: dark circles linger under his eyes, and there's a slight shake to his hands that he can't hide. Despite the warm weather, Clay's hands rub at his biceps as if trying to warm himself; Trent won't rule out the possibility that could be a psychological thing due to the heaviness of their conversation.

As the conversation wears on, Trent's concern shoots higher and higher till it's nearly through the roof. Clay needs serious help, more help than the unit can give him.

"Clay, I know this is the last thing you want to hear. You need a hospital buddy," he meets Clay's eyes for this last statement. The younger man's eyes widen, and a look of panic streaks across his face.

"No, no. I won't go to a hospital."

"Do you understand you are at serious risk for heart failure? One day your body will give up on you, and your heart will stop, and there will be _nothing _we can do. We have already lost too many people, don't make us lose you too."

"Trent, I'm fine. Keep yourself out of my fucking business," Clay snaps, before whirling around and taking off at a dead run. Trent lets him go, knowing he'll work the problem mentally, and come back in a much more agreeable mood. The other guys join him outside after a minute, all finding seats on either logs or in the sand.

"What's the verdict?" Jason wonders.

"He needs a hospital."

The shock of this simple statement resonates throughout the group.

"A _hospital? _You sure about that?" Sonny questions.

"If we do nothing, he will die."

Xxxx

Clay returns to base a half hour later, sweat pouring off of him. Wordlessly Jason hands him a water bottle, and then leans back against their couch to watch him drink it.

"We aren't trying to hurt you, but you do need help," Jason informs him.

"Yeah, I know," Clay crinkles the plastic bottle between his fingers..

"This doesn't mean you're off the teams."

"I know that too."

"I had a sit-down with Blackburn while you were gone, let him know the situation. They're gonna find a place for you to stay."

A mirthless laugh escapes Clay.

"And how long is that gonna last?"

"As long as you need, kid."

The truth of that settles over them, before Clay mutters an excuse and wanders off towards his room. The door shuts behind him, and a few minutes later muffled voices can be heard, Sonny trying to get Clay to open up. They're all brothers of course, but Sonny is Clay's best friend, and can normally get him to spill whatever's bugging him. It's the same ability that Ray has with Jason, and Trent with Brock. Jason sits down heavily on the couch, and scrubs his hands over his face.

Xxxx

Clay's plum worn out and haggard-looking when he enters the room, plastic water bottle dangling from his fingers. The bed springs squeak at his sudden weight, moaning and groaning as he shifts around taking off his shoes and socks, before finally laying down, one arm outstretched so his fingers can trail along the ceiling. Sonny glances up from his book at the top bunk, and silently raises his eyebrows.

"I've really fucked up this time, haven't I," Clay states with an exhaustion that's more than physical.

"Depends on your definition of fucked up. Nah, I think you just made a few bad choices, took a few wrong turns. You'll get set on the right path again."

A few minutes pass, the sound of turning pages filling the room.

"When I'm runnin', swimmin', liftin' weights, whatever man...I just...I don't gotta think about anything, you know? I don't have to remember the way it felt to realize Brian wasn't coming home, or the way Stella sounded as she said goodbye. I just had to focus on my form, my time, my speed. I don't know how that led to this."

"Someone once told me, 'moderation is the key to anything." No, clearly I don't believe in such nonsense when it comes to booze or ladies, but I think in some respects it's true. You just overdid the exercise, and underdid the eatin'. This hospital place they're talking about, ain't nothin' scary. Just gotta help ya get your mind right, is all."

"That was...surprisingly helpful Sonny. Wow, and here I thought the alcohol had fried all your brain cells."

Sonny just snorted softly.

"Go to sleep kid, 'fore I beat your ass."

Xxxx

Recovery is a long and arduous process, one that Clay hates violently with every fiber of his being. Therapy sessions are worse than SERE was, he discovers, and the hospital food is gross enough to kill his appetite entirely. To put the cherry on top, his team is still on active rotation, which equals long periods spent out of touch with them. The other residents are fine, sure whatever, but they're not his brothers. And right now, his brothers are the only people that he wants.

One sleepless night, he gets the bright idea to make a break for it, and ends up sneaking out pretty damn easily. He's not pleased about having to wear the stupid blue hospital gown, but he's outside and breathing fresh air and he hasn't felt this good in _weeks._

Sonny's his best friend, co-conspirator in all things, and can be relied upon to help aid Clay in getting back to civilization. That's the belief Clay holds until Sonny pulls up to the bus shelter with a truck full of pissed off Navy SEALS.

"Aw, c'mon Sonny. Really?" He whines as Jason exits from the front seat, while Ray and Eric jump down from the bed. Sonny at least has the grace to appear abashed.

"Mighta forgot to turn off speaker when you called," he mumbles.

"C'mon kid. In the truck, c'mon. No prison breaks for you, nope cause you still gotta get better," Jason herds him towards the truck.

"I'm freaking bored out of my skull man," Clay complains, sliding into the backseat. Trent had slipped out so Clay could the take the middle, and now gets back in too, ensuring Clay won't do something as wildly stupid as jump from a moving truck.

"You did the crime, gotta do the time," Ray informs him. Eric nods in agreement.

"It's not that much longer now, right? You can stick it out," Jason glances at him briefly.

"Ughhhh," Clay moans, and leans his head back against the seat.

Xxxx

A month later, he meets a truck full of Navy SEALs again, only this time he's fully clothed and they're not pissed off. The sun feels good on his face, and he tips it upward, basking in the generous warmth. Jeers and shouts greet him, and he opens his eyes and shoots them a wide grin. Soon, he's smothered in hugs and back pats, and hair ruffles, as seemingly everyone reaches out to lay some sort of hand on him. It's the very best thing he could have ever asked for.

They take him to lunch, and everyone pretends to not be secretly observing every move he makes. It should make him feel cornered and panicked, but doesn't, because he gave them a hell of a time. At first, he felt sorta livid at being forced into the hospital, but understands now how bad things were. Time has given him perspective in a way nothing else really could have, and he's grateful for what he went through, and now has come out the other side of. He's stronger now than he was before, and isn't haunted anymore by memories of the past.

A swelling in his chest feels something like happiness, and he's never been more grateful to be alive.


End file.
